Exploring Anthony Hopkins' Autobiography We Did OK, Kid – Insights: A Legend Known for His Fiery Nature

Many consider it the greatest appearance in cinematic history – and he remains completely still.

A young FBI agent, new to the job, must walk the line of detention units arriving at Hannibal Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. The man is present, appearing as a skeletal visage radiating satanic malice, unnervingly still clad in a tight prisoner's blue outfit. He stands frozen before suddenly he lunges toward the window, producing that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. A multitude of true-crime documentaries have since demonstrated that genuine criminals are often very boring, far from Hopkins' commanding screen presence.

He was not a newcomer at the time he got the part that won him an Oscar in the 1991 thriller back in 1989: he was already established, but a legend was forged. His portrayal of Lecter was inspired, the actor happily remembers in his recent memoir, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin as recalled by his daughter, and on his own icily exacting drama teacher Christopher Fettes. The scenes also contained a paternal-filial aspect to these scenes; a sore point for the actor, who recounts how his portrayal of Lear was subconsciously influenced by deep-seated remorse concerning Abigail, his distant daughter from his failed first union during the 60s with Petronella Barker, who resented his absences and his drinking habits.

The book's name comes from an historical picture of Anthony as a small child on the beach with his dad – the child who might have felt he couldn't make it. He appeared lost, shy and fragile youth raised in Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the memorable figure in this story: a bread-maker and man's man, a plain speaker who despised the sanctimonious churchgoers at the church and refused to showing his emotions, but had a streak of wistful, tearful romanticism. It was Hopkins Sr who was angered by the way they had to go humbly to their wealthy relations like Auntie Patty, whose husband knew Nye Bevan and helped enroll the young Anthony into an elite school: “Due to their immense riches!” he raves in the car on the way there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The grovelling paid off, for a while. He was a poor student at the prestigious school. However, one day in an English lesson he had to recite John Masefield's poem titled The West Wind – sight unseen – and his talent emerged; he shocked the educator and the other boys. He convincingly states that poetry, on its own, launched him. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA theater group. Surprisingly, he exited school a no-hoper, pursued acting, and amazingly to his parents, was acting alongside Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic within 10 years. He more or less did it on his own, though at that time there were grants to go to Rada – a path to success for performers from modest means. His dad remained in awe by his son's international fame: on asking his son to perform the Yorick monologue from the play Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then retreated to another room and burst into tears.

As for the hot-tempered, stubborn individual, he left the National Theatre out of frustration – causing Olivier's regret and disapproval – but lucked into a great TV role as a suspected war criminal in the series QB VII, which eventually resulted to parts like that in the film The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in movies, that he favored to the stage. He stopped drinking during the mid-70s once a notorious drinker, and managed to live into his later years to execute great performances, like Hannibal Lecter, the servant Stevens in The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in the movie The Father – his second Academy Award.

During the second part of the memoir he appears more reserved, more calculated. A few tales fall a bit flat. He recalls going out for lunch by his co-star in the film Nixon, the much-respected actor Sorvino, who intended to inform him his performance as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the chance for Hopkins to learn advice from the renowned performer of the Goodfellas fame? Not exactly. Hopkins seems to go along with the director's criticism of Sorvino as driven out of envy. Is that so?

He consistently acts as the no-nonsense, practical performer who maintains you must to get there on time, learn everyone's name on set and get on with it. Indeed. However, he also describes confronting an obnoxious director who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologize to that girl! And learn some manners. Should you ever act that way near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Hopkins sounds like someone who gave up drink yet perhaps not the aggression that accompanied it. A Shakespearean like him surely knows the lines about Kent from Cornwall from Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A truthful and simple spirit – he must speak truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a lengthy appendix composed simply